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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26825995">kills you to be kind</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/microcastles/pseuds/microcastles'>microcastles</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dead To Me (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/F, Lots of dialogue, amateur MMA au, consensual ass kicking, listen i don't know either, sexually charged sparring</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 10:54:14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,490</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26825995</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/microcastles/pseuds/microcastles</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Judy knows without having seen Jen fight that her hooks will be vicious, but sloppy; she would throw all of her body into it, recovering too slowly to assume a defensive position. If Judy is going to land a strike, it has to be then. They circle each other, closing the distance now and then only to hop out of range. “C’mon, Jude,” Jen says. Judy throws a tentative jab that lands nearly a foot from Jen’s solar plexus, then scrambles backwards. “You can hit me.”</p><p>--</p><p>or, jen and judy work out their respective emotional issues via contact sports.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Judy Hale/Jen Harding</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>25</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>kills you to be kind</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>this is purely self-indulgent and set sometime after the car crash. mostly fun, some feelings, eventual sex. i just think they'd thrive in a setting where they can consensually hit and get hit. the violence won't be too graphic, but there will be descriptions of bruising, kicking, maybe a chipped tooth or a black eye, etc.</p><p>the title is from "bob (cousin o)" by the gits, both because i think jen would have had an adolescent punk/grunge phase and because if "it hurts me to be angry / kills me to be kind" doesn't sum them both up, i don't know what does.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The gym is in an old warehouse in the industrial part of town, or as close to industrial as still exists in the richest parts of Orange County, formerly aerospace manufacturing or something like it. It still smells faintly of oil and metal and, now, sweat and overly floral attempts to compensate for the sweat--lavender, maybe, definitely rosemary. Jen wrinkles her nose. She strides into the office undaunted, Judy trailing behind her. She fields the sideways glances cast at them by the most archetypal-looking of OC soccer moms, the grown up incarnations of the girls who, in high school, sneered at the holes in her Converse and ostracized her for her perceived lesbianism. Judy buried her distaste for this particular brand of suburban affluence for the sake of Steve and for her job; privately, though, Jen’s open disdain for them felt like permission for Judy to hate them a little bit, too.</p><p>Rapping her knuckles on the hard wood of the front desk, Jen tells the receptionist, “We’re, uh, here for kickboxing.”</p><p>The receptionist turns and smirks at them, plunging her hands into the pockets of her enormous knit cardigan. “I’m just gonna need you to sign some waivers.”</p><p>Judy shoots Jen the closest thing to a scowl Jen has ever received from her.</p><p>The inside of Judy’s borrowed gloves are slick with what she assumes is other people’s sweat. The musk of it makes her lightheaded. Beside her on the padded warehouse floor, Jen shifts her weight from foot to foot in a boxer’s bounce, smacking her own borrowed gloves together experimentally. She stares at the rows of mounted heavy bags like she’s sizing them up. Jen could be described as “giddy” under very few circumstances; this appeared to be one of them. Judy's gaze lingers on the sway of her hips, the way her ponytail rises and falls with her.</p><p>“You’ve done this before?” Judy asks.</p><p>“Nope,” says Jen, popping the ‘p.’ “You ready?”</p><p>“Nope,” says Judy in kind.</p><p>As soon as she could stand up for longer than twenty minutes at a time, Jen had taken to solitary morning hikes in Crystal Cove, to marathon spin classes, to long-distance runs along the beach. This, she told Judy, would be good for them both; she itched to hit somebody in a socially acceptable setting and swore it might benefit Judy, too. For her part, Judy got her physical and spiritual fulfillment from the occasional hot yoga class. She doubted hitting anything, much less another person, would serve as an outlet for her.</p><p>The first quarter of class consists of a warm up--fifty each of pushups, situps, and squats-- followed by shadow boxing. Jen and Judy exchange tentative looks, feeling ridiculous throwing punches at empty air while the twelve or so other students (almost all women, almost all lanky blondes) unabashedly pitch knees and roundhouse kicks that never meet a target. The instructor, Victor, a sturdy man with the apparent disposition of a golden retriever, hovers behind them on the mat.</p><p>“Gloves up,” he says. “You lower your gloves in a fight, you’re gonna get hit.”</p><p>“But they’re heavy,” Judy whines. Every muscle in her body burns, but her shoulders throb  with the effort of holding a pair of 12 oz gloves high enough to frame her face. Victor only laughs.</p><p>“You get used to it.”</p><p>He pairs Jen with a man roughly her own age and height and Judy with Elena, a twenty-something with a buoyant energy and a messy bun, with the directive to learn the basics of running drills. The rest of the class trades off turns at something that looks brutal and complicated, ending with one partner slamming knee after knee into a pad their opponent holds precariously across their own stomach.</p><p>“Let’s see a jab,” says Elena, holding up a pad level with her cheek. Judy stares at her blankly. “Left hand.”</p><p>She flings her gloved fist forward, glancing inelegantly off the target. </p><p>“Again. Really hit it. You’re not gonna hurt me.” </p><p>Glove hits pad with a dull thud. Across the room, Jen is saying something like,”I know how to throw a punch, dude.”</p><p>“Harder,” says Elena.</p><p>“If you say so,” Judy says, cocking an eyebrow before she can help it. “Sorry.”</p><p>“Rein it in,” Elena laughs. “It only gets more suggestive. Sometimes we do ‘groin strikes.’”</p><p>Choking on her laughter, Judy surges forward and hits the pad with a resounding smack.</p><p>“There you go, just like that,” Elena says. “Now, let’s work on your cross.”</p><p>Elena keeps her moving, circling each other on an invisible axis. She catches glimpses of the icy gleam in Jen’s eyes, the fluid way her fists snap out and back again, shoulders rotating to accommodate them. Judy thinks martial arts must be a distant cousin of dance, with the way Jen’s whole body moves in tandem. Just then, she over commits to a roundhouse kick, momentarily throwing herself off balance.</p><p>“That’ll be deadly,” her partner says with a smug smile. “But it needs some work.”</p><p>At the end of class, Victor lines them up against the back wall. Jen and Judy stand beside each other, their shoulders just touching. “Pick a partner and face them,” he says. “One person against the wall, hands behind your head. You’re gonna take turns giving each other a little gut massage.”</p><p>Judy says, “But we’re new,” at the same time Jen shouts, “What?”</p><p>“Can’t be afraid to get hit,” Victor shrugs. “Pair up with each other, and go easy. Everybody, remember you’ll be getting as good as you give. Gut punches only.”</p><p>“Do you…” starts Jen. Her forehead glistens with sweat.</p><p>“Hit me first.” Judy backs into the wall, hunching over slightly. “Not too hard.”</p><p>At Victor’s command, Jen launches a series of weak-wristed taps into Judy’s stomach. It makes her breathe funny, pushes her gently against the cool wall, but it doesn’t hurt.</p><p>“Well, harder than that,” decides Judy. Jen snorts. She escalates to controlled uppercuts, firm and some with bite. Judy exhales through it, letting her mind go blank.</p><p>“Switch,” Victor says, interrupting her trance. As they switch places, Judy holds Jen’s gaze.</p><p>“You can really hit me,” Jen says. </p><p>“Okay.” Judy’s gloves barely graze her torso. Jen sighs.</p><p>“Hit me, Jude,” she says again. “I want you to.” </p><p>“Okay.”</p><p>“Hit me.”</p><p>“I don’t think--”</p><p>“Fucking hit me!”</p><p>“Okay!” Judy shouts, punctuating it with a jab that knocks the wind out of Jen. She doubles over with a strange grin tugging at her lips as Judy rushes toward her with an endless stream of apologies.</p><p>“That was a good one,” says Jen, smiling. “Seriously.” Judy huffs out a cautious laugh.</p><p> </p><p>The patio chairs are warm from the late afternoon sun, the glow of it almost too much after a glass and a half of wine. Judy feels a pleasant flush on her cheeks and a sense of airiness only brought to her by weed or prosecco, or, on the days she really needs to cast off her consciousness like an anchor, both. Jen faces her, perching crosslegged on the opposite chair.</p><p>“My guy was arrogant as shit,” Jen is saying. “He goes to tournaments, so he thinks he’s hot fucking stuff. I couldn’t stand it.”</p><p>“I thought I heard you telling him you know how to punch. Maybe pair up with Elena next time,” Judy offers. “She was super patient with me.”</p><p>“Next time?” Jen’s eyebrows raise. “You want to go again?”</p><p>“Don’t you?”</p><p>“Well, yeah, I just didn’t think that you’d actually like it. I know it’s not really your vibe.”</p><p>“The clientele are…” Judy trails off with a grimace. “Not my favorite, but--”</p><p>“They’re Orange County people, Jude. We live in Orange County.”</p><p>“<i>I’m</i> from Long Beach,” says Judy, sitting up a little straighter. “Well, I was born there. We call it the Orange Curtain.” Jen sputters into her glass.</p><p>“Seriously? How did I not know that?”</p><p>“About me, or about the Orange Curtain?”</p><p>“Both, I guess. It’s a little weird that one place could produce both you and Snoop Dogg.” </p><p>Judy’s lips split into a wide grin, the way they always do before she makes a truly terrible joke. Jen braces herself visibly, face steeling into a skeptical mask. “Ain’t nothin’ but a ‘G’ thang, baby,” Judy says, eyebrows waggling.</p><p>“Please, no.” They break into peals of laughter, draining the last of their prosecco.</p><p>After a beat, Judy says,“Anyway, are you sure I didn’t hurt you?”</p><p>“Yes, Judy. Are you sure you want to go back?”</p><p>“Yeah.” Her dark eyes are downcast, thoughtful, like she’s on the cusp of an unconscious truth. “It’s kind of meditative. Like, I feel more at peace.”</p><p>“That’s the wine, baby. And the endorphins.”</p><p>“I don’t think it’s just that, Jen,” </p><p>“Hitting shit, then.”</p><p>“Getting hit, too.” Her eyes still cast down at the warm patch of cement between, she can feel Jen’s gaze on her like sunlight.</p>
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